


Control

by ZaliaChimera



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Betrayal, Dark, Gen, Mercenaries, Project Freelancer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 13:04:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4961656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/pseuds/ZaliaChimera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, when Control comes, they do not fight for him. Wash takes a different path.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Control

They come too soon. Armour half on, a discordant mix of black and blue, when they hear the hornets.

 

We can take them, Wash wants to say. Grunts with guns, we can take them. But the Reds and Blues are not the Freelancers, and they’re worn and bloody from their fight with the Meta. He can see the exhaustion in every line of their postures, bravado flagging at last. 

 

As for him, he knows that the pale of his face beneath the helmet is from more than lack of sunlight, after years all but living in armour. The rough field dressings are already soaking through. He had enough left in him to change into Church… Alpha… no, Epsilon’s armour. Enough to hide. Not enough to fight.

 

And they, half dead on their feet, don’t fight for him.

 

He can’t blame them. They’re enemies. He’s hunted them down, shot and maimed and savaged them. They are not friends. They’re a mission.

 

He blames them anyway, and is cuffed and bundled into one of the hornets to the sound of Caboose’s wretched wails as they claim the Epsilon unit.

 

———-

 

Three days they let him sit. The medical treatment is the only good thing, and even that seems perfunctory. An afterthought when he’s locked up in a cell again. It’s not the prison this time. He knows that. A ship. He’s on a ship. Could be anywhere by now. They take his armour from him. Leave the undersuit. Doesn’t matter, it still feels like being stripped bare.

 

They don’t kill him. That’s the strange thing. Control must know that he’d betrayed them at the last. Had intended to let Epsilon hide in the unit, had intended to hide with the Blues and Red, an ignoble end as a Sim Trooper. Maybe a happier one. Easy to be happy when you don’t have anything to fight for.

 

Three days, and he gets a viewscreen that shows nothing but a logo, and Control’s voice waking him up from fitful sleep. It’s a tactic. He doesn’t know what time it is, whether it’s night or day. They’re throwing him off. It’s working.

 

“Agent Washington. I have read with interest, the details of your mission.”

 

Wash leans back on the cot, the thin standard issue mattress that might as well be a rock. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

 

“Despite your… indiscretions, I confess to being rather impressed with your handling of this mission.”

 

That’s… new. Wash doesn’t reply. It’s the only power he has. He’s damn well going to use it.

 

“You see, I am embarking upon a new endeavour. One which requires a certain skill set, and a certain frame of mind. It is a job which I feel you would be uniquely suited for. You would, of course, be handsomely compensated for your time.”

 

“What’s the catch?” There is always a catch. Money has never been much of a factor for him. Duty, friendship, revenge. Those have always been his poisons.

 

“No catch. I am in need of your skills. You are in need of my assistance once again. A good basis for a partnership, don’t you think?”

 

Translation: agree or go back to prison. Agree or most likely find yourself dead before you get to prison.

 

He thinks of the Meta falling. Thinks of Tex setting those explosives. Thinks of the Reds and Blues, and in his head how they’d cowered away, their exhaustion transmuted to callousness.

 

Thinks of Epsilon, breaking everything for a memory again. Always Epsilon.

 

Wash grins. It bares his teeth. “I think we can talk.”


End file.
